


my friend is gonna murder me

by Xx_rider_of_the_storm_xX (regret_reading_you_will)



Series: naughty english schoolboy confesses to hot russian priest with anthrax [1]
Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Angst, Crack, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Necrophilia, Post-Eagle Stike, Unreliable Narrator, anthrax-y yassen, bad mourning decisions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25979473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regret_reading_you_will/pseuds/Xx_rider_of_the_storm_xX
Summary: The boy could hear his voice, but could not hear his words. "No," he said, "because you do not want to know what you're doing." He stopped.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Series: naughty english schoolboy confesses to hot russian priest with anthrax [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885609
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	1. recoil

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say? Prompted by, "Priestly Yassen, innocent boy Alex, terrible no-good atheist Ian", except that Ian ain't here. Almost completely written by a non-human, minimal edits for coherency.

Alex had been a very naughty boy. The Russian, in his priestly robes and deadly eyes, was tied down as the schoolboy approached. It was time for a confession.

"Yassen", he gasped with a British lisp, as the Russian man struggled against his restraints. "You must be in love, Yassen", he shouted, but the blonde priest's mouth stayed shut. "And let's go to the bed!"

Then the priest, who had only two days to go before the end of the session, began to sob. "No, don't come here, you are like my teacher! Why are you doing this?"

The boy could hear his voice, but could not hear his words. "No," he said, "because you do not want to know what you're doing." He stopped.

"Please, let us fuck now", Alex yelled.

"Don't be too big, Alex!" A sudden moan.

"Don't come here, Alex! Don't be too big, Alex!" The priest looked on at Alex, now about to lose his virginity. "I can't believe it! You are John Rider's baby."

"Oh, no , I can't believe it!" Alex shouted in exasperation. "This is the best part of this!", and shoved in with one violent heave.

The priest shouted. "You need to be very big, Alex!" Alex tried to keep calm and calm, and he - the pale blonde man - began to cry again. "I have no idea what you are doing! It's very, very unfair! I do not have any ideas! We are not going to go to bed."

Alex could not speak, and was struggling. The priest had already started crying. He had died two days ago. "Who is this terrible person doing this to me!"

"He is a very sad person, a very sad boy, a very sad youth," Alex said, looking at the priest, "to be here doing this to the corpse of a man".  
Yassen cried with ruined pride, and his heart was now broken. Yassen was in despair. "Who would have thought of you as such?" The priest took his breath. "I am sorry for you, Alex!"

Alex looked over at the remains of Yassen, "I am sorry for you."

More quietly, "I am."

Alex took his time, and his heart pumped great, thundering beats of passion. The false priest had already fallen asleep, as it had reached its climax before him, so the pain of this agony came to an end. It was a nightmare, but the loss was too great to not do it. It was too good to do it again. Alex was tired and his breathing became unbearable.

"I...I lov-"

"I don't think you will ever find that kind of joy," the man interrupted, "you have been alone all day long, I know."

Yassen shook his head, his hands crossed over his chest and he was still not smiling.

The fantasy was gone. Alex was alone in the mortuary, with a battered body. In the distance beside him it laid, his chest a bloody mass. Yassen Gregorovich was as still in death as he was in life, wrapped in a sterile, white shroud.

"What do you think of your death?"

There was no response.

* * *

"Alex? Where did you go?" The sound of Jack's voice and footsteps grew closer from outside in the hallway.

"Shit," He breathed, face covered with blood. Yassen, who had died and had no other reason to help, looked up in the darkness with a blank stare and no pity.

"Jack is gonna kill me."


	2. landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laxi: Alex, a mourning veil and a bunch of hairpins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly, not a single bot touched this. Tis just a poor mimic of one.

Alex was on psychiatric leave. Unofficially it was called “post mission chats” for something like “processing his first up-close death” in the polite language and “binning the broken tool” in the blunt language, as he didn’t exist officially. Considering he’s been stuck in the room for a week now, it was a very long chat. The chat was very silent.

Who knew all it took for MI6 to stop sending him on missions was to wander into the lower-levels of the building, find the morgue, and viciously fuck the corpse of a top twenty internationally wanted assassin? 

Not him, certainly, but here he was. Here he is, lonely boy. Here he is, alone boy. 

Here lies Alex Rider, finally with free time in the world and no adults to say otherwise, may he rest in peace. 

Alex rolled over. He thought about the priest. The prie—no, Yassen, had died after being shot in the chest. They were on a plane together with Sabina. Yassen had blessed him with something important but he couldn’t remember. Holy words of...of…

Alex rolled over to his other side and coughed. The bed was pushed up against the wall and he was now facing it. He felt as if peeled into different strips of meat. Why did he do what he did? Did he go insane? Was he insane right now? He didn’t want therapy but if he was really going crazy he supposed he should.

His head pained from thinking too much and he remembered that the priest had terribly pale skin. He was very cold for a man, full of love but then it all leaked out of his front, and it soaked the white sheets with red-brownish goop. Alex put his face in it and tried to breath it all in, so he could be washed of his sins. 

Sins?

Alex didn’t go to church. Ian never did, after all, and Jack was a firm believer in the power of unstoppable power of taxes. She cursed them enough, after all. He thought her spirit was very American. He wasn’t faithful enough to believe in sins, although if pressed he was pretty sure he could list at least six. Or seven.

The man and the woman and the man and the woman that MI6 had sent to talk to him told him it was okay to be in shock from seeing someone die, and that although it wasn’t common grief did different things to everyone. He was allowed to mourn, and once he understood that he could work on everything else. Alex wasn’t very sure who died, but he nodded at the right points and avoided scratching at the line on his neck. He wasn’t really sure when it had appeared, but it was itchy. It was very straight and traced the side of his neck. The people would cut his nails if he scratched too much, and then it was hard to...

Alex sat up suddenly. He turned to look at his reflection in the window. There were no marks on his neck other than slight scabbing. It was slightly crusty.

Yassen Gregorovich had died after refusing to kill Alex and being shot point blank in the chest by Damian Cray. He told Alex about his father and Scorpia before bleeding out. Sabina and him were rescued from the plane. He eventually went home with Jack, and then went back to the MI6 building after a few days to give a talk over what happened to Mrs. Jones and Blunt. After debriefing they told him to wait outside while they said something to Jack, but he decided to explore the lower floors instead, and followed a technician into the elevator. Down the hallway, inside the second room on the left he found the mortuary. There was body prepped for an autopsy, and the corpse was— 

Feeling dizzy, Alex realised he didn’t know for sure what happened after that. Oh, they did tell him in enough politely worded statements that he knew the actions he took, but he couldn’t remember it that way. 

“Damn.” 

His voice, louder than he expected, gave him a start. It had been quiet for too long. Some chat this was, indeed. He scrunched his eyes shut and pressed on them with his palms. All he was certain of was that he had felt very sad and very joyful, all at the same time.

Mourning, indeed. For a man he barely knew anything more than that he would choose to not to kill him outright, after he died for it. A man he hated and wanted to kill for killing his uncle. 

Could it be that his emotions were simply too conflicting and had caused his brain to shut down, making him do…that? 

Alex wasn’t so sure human brains worked that way, but it seemed as solid of a theory as any. He hoped that given enough time his brain would turn back on again. Maybe it just needed to restart, and went through a bit of a glitch, like powering on and off Ian’s old PC when he was eight. If he opened too many games at once the PC would suddenly crash. Turning it back on the screen would always flicker a bit, flashing text and blue before loading. Sometimes it saved his game progresses, sometimes it did not. 

Bizarrely, Alex found his thoughts turning to Victorian death traditions. Didn’t the women wear a veil of some sorts, after a death? They could hide themselves away from the world, a shroud like the one wrapping the dead ones between their eyes and the living. They probably prayed a lot, too. Priests and mourners alike, consolation in the next world. 

He wondered if anyone other than Jack would wrap themselves for him. Maybe Tom. Certainly no one did so for Yassen, except for Yassen himself. He was the priest and the dead in one, listening to the confessions of a murder wrapped in white.

Alex flipped the sheets up and covered his head with it. It looked very white, and felt nice. Unfortunately, when he moved it was like a great tempest, the sheets falling back and off like crying sailors being swept off the ship. There were damp spots on it. 

He should probably find a way to attach it to his head. 

Patting himself down, he realised that although they confiscated everything sharp and large, they left him his original clothing and Jack’s hoodie. Alex checked the seams along the pockets and found what he was looking for. Jack, after nagging from Ian, had started a habit of leaving hair pins in her clothing. She did know how to pick basic locks but she ended up mainly using the hair pins to keep her bangs back, as she would easily lose hair ties. 

Attach, attach, how do they work again. Alex poked holes in the sheet and tried pinning it to his head. It fell off as there was not enough hair to clip. Could he stick it through his scalp? His head felt very warm.

He started pushing the pins against his head. Maybe they would grow into him, veil this white and stop the priest from coming back from the dead. Stop the...stop…

A walking ghost shroud came up to him and started taking away his hands. His hands! Give them back, give them back, he is mourning like he should please give them back it’s so tiring please. Alex opened his mouth to say I’m tired but he was too tired. The priest wasn’t there to save him this time.

* * *

In the background someone was singing, Anne-the-rex, you can’t see him, the blood was lovely Anne-the-rex— 

—con tan my Nation for Queen and country he will lie back please don’t hurt your— 

Oh well. Might as well sleep.


	3. interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lmao this shitpost is going places

“What do you mean, there isn’t a cure?"

With barely suppressed rage, Jack demanded Blunt to answer, to respond with something other than that pallid passivity which she dearly wished to crack with something, be it emotion or her fists. Alex had watched a man die in front of him, after being shot at and almost killed, and then apparently suffered a psychiatric breakdown and was now infected by some sort of contagious bioweapon? 

Fucking bullshit. 

Right now, what Alex should be doing is quietly fretting at the kitchen table. Trying to, unsuccessfully, ignore he was worrying over whether he should wear his red hoodie or black one to meet Sabina. She would be teasing him (oh, she knew that they were just friends, but there was a possibility and she would be remiss as an older sister to pass up the opportunity), and he would frown then throw grapes at her, quipping at her terrible dates in the past, so who was she to say anything to him, not with that experience under her belt.

Alex shouldn't be locked up in a room somewhere, quarantined and unable to leave his bed. He shouldn't have been seeing ghosts and crying. He shouldn't be all alone right now.

If Jack wasn't so desperately aware of the fact that there would be no one to worry for and take care of Alex when he recovers—he will get better, whatever MI6 says be dammed—she would've decked Blunt long before when he first approached the two of them. Jack grew up on a rough-n-tumble street with a scrawny younger brother to protect, after all. Alex was her little brother too, these years that she spent with him, looking after. From burning cup ramen on the burner together to making passably authentic lasagna from scratch; from Ian first hiring her (on the spot too! She was surprised, considering the pay) to silent vigil at Ian's funeral and beyond.

Shifting her feet in front of the large, metallic, office-generic desk she inhaled slowly. The carpet gave off a slight musty smell that was just barely covered up by an incredibly cheap lemon-scented air freshener. 

"Tell me again, please, what happened to Alex, and why I can't see him."

Blunt, she was gleefully petty to notice, blinked half a second longer than usual. He shuffled a few papers back out from a folder, the light hitting then shining off his forehead and squared glasses with a muted glare. "Alex was contaminated with an unknown strain of engineered anthrax, likely one of the many projects the Soviets were working on throughout the late eighties. The corpse of the man he... mutilated was apparently a carrier of dormant spores within his body that Alex then," a mild raise of the eyebrows, "brought into his own body, in various ways. We didn't expect it to be possible that the dead man still carried living contaminants within him. It was biologically unfeasible, especially with how he had immunity and that there have been no previous reports on anyone falling ill from contact."

"So? Make a cure from his blood then, if that man had immunity! Extract something. That's the least that you guys can do, forcing Alex into deadly situations like that. Not to mention, all of this was caused by your fault in the first place."

All of a sudden, Jack was feeling absurd. For once it was cloudless, the sun bright outside the masquerade bank shining lines on her feet through the window slats. Here she was, standing in front of a man who didn't care about the situation more than what possible advantage he could get from studying the bioweapon further. She knew what he was thinking, clear as the sky that day. As useful as Alex was as a competent child spy, he was worth more currently as a subject to study. Besides, it's not like he'll be of any more use in the future, not being that unstable and liable to ruin. Best make the most out of an accidental situation, you understand? _Miss_ Starbright, please, be reasonable. Be reasonable about our murder, be reasonable about your status in this foreign land, living here longer than Ian Rider ever did with his restless heart.

She wasn't sure if she hated him more or hated Ian more in that moment, men with their ambitious secrets and disgustingly oblivious thinking. They missed such important things in life, she wasn't even sure where to start. And they called spies observant, hah.

Or maybe not Ian. He had tried. The man that killed Ian, who even after death condemned Alex to his current tragedy. Jack loathed Yassen Gregorovich for coming into their lives with the quiet fury of someone trapped from action, shaking pulse and invisible eyes. Oh, no one told her that name outright, but she wasn’t stupid. Her eyes and ears worked perfectly fine, and Alex was an open book, as amusing as it was to see him think her fooled. If it hadn't been for him, MI6 never would've gone after Alex like that in the first place. Ian would still go on odd business trips and bring back obscure curios, trying much harder than before with his fractured love and all—Jack certainly lectured him enough that something started sticking. Alex would be competing with Tom for the same position on the football team, if only to egg Tom on into performing better. And she…she would be back home, seeing her parents and family for the first time in _years_. 

Just simply absurd. 

Jack wanted to cry. 


End file.
